


First Love is the Sweetest

by GodModeSue



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Love Triangles, Meet-Cute, Post-War of the Ring, Romance, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodModeSue/pseuds/GodModeSue
Summary: Two years ago, circumstances conspired against Lothíriel's betrothal to the man she loves. Now, she sees a second chance. But is it possible she's chasing after the wrong man?





	First Love is the Sweetest

“Prince Faramir of Ithilien! Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth!”

As we passed into the great hall, it didn’t escape me that, though by a certain reckoning we made up the most eligible pairing in all of Gondor, each of us had eyes only for another. For Faramir, it was Eowyn, his bride-to-be. For me, Lord Guilin of Lebennin. I hadn’t seen him in almost two years.

Yet there he was, ten steps ahead, dancing in green. Perhaps a trifle gaunter than I remembered. War could do that to a man. As could a wife and heir lost in childbirth. In the two short years since Lord Denethor had forbidden our betrothal, Lord Guilin had experienced both.

“Thíri, would you—”

“Faramir, might I—”

We smiled at each other. “Save me a dance, cousin,” he said.

“Of course!” It would be a pleasure. He kissed my hand, and we went our separate ways. 

I had spent three anxious weeks plotting what I would say to Guilin. The truth was — I was not naive on this count — I was no longer the most important person in his life. Two years ago, perhaps I had been. Two years ago, we had been madly in love, and when Denethor had forbidden us to marry and sent me home to Dol Amroth, it had felt like the end of the world. 

Then war had come to Gondor. With my father and brothers fighting off corsairs at home and the Enemy in the east, the running of Dol Amroth had fallen to me. For two years I’d ruled a city and fed an army. When news of Guilin’s marriage reached me, there had been no time to cry, no time for anything at all but to dictate Dol Amroth’s congratulations to my scribe for inclusion in our next dispatch to the front. If he had died in Ithilien, I might have cried then. But he hadn’t. Instead, it had been his wife, and the babe with her.

It was all rather … clean. I tried to pity her, this woman I had never met, but oh, I was glad she was gone and he was free. Although he surely had cared for her, I knew he didn’t, couldn’t love her. Two years, much of it spent apart, was not enough time for that to grow. Not when one already loved another as he had loved me. And he had loved me. I only meant to ask him to remember.

But before I could reach him, a hand caught my wrist and pulled me away. “‘Rothos!” I shrieked. “Don’t  _ do _ that!”

My youngest brother only smirked. Not wanting to make a scene, I let him tug me down a side corridor, away from the crowds. “What on earth—”

“Valar take me,” Amrothos whined right over me. I had to jog to keep up as he darted around corners and led me deeper into the warren of passages below Merethrond. “How do you stand it? Turgon’s codpiece, Thiri, I’ve danced with the _dullest_ women. And did you see what that cockatiel Wilwarin was wearing, I mean, honestly!”

“‘Rothos, we’ve only just arrived.”

“I know! That means we’ve hours of this to go!” He broke his furious stride, turned to me, and cried, “Appliqués! Lion-of-Rohan appliqués!”

“No!”

“Down her hips, three on each side.”

I smothered a giggle. “Do you think she wants a litter?”

“I know it,” he said darkly.

“You’d think he was the only man in Gondor,” I mused. “He’s not even the only king.”

“The only eligible one, though.”

That was true. No wilting Gondorian lady was likely to usurp the newly-crowned Queen anytime soon. Or ever. One only had to look at Elessar and Arwen to know that theirs was a love uncommonly deep and strong.

King Éomer, on the other hand, hardly seemed the type to fall in love at all. Though I had yet remained at Dol Amroth when he last visited Gondor, reports of his ‘making the rounds’ at every social event to feature young ladies had left an impression of a man almost singularly uninterested in romance, despite the most fervent wishes of his advisors. In fact, my friends had found him quite grim and foreboding. Coupled with a general view of Rohan as an uncivilized northern backwater, this might have been taken to imply that King Éomer made a rather undesirable match. Not so. He had the word ‘king’ in front of his name — or behind it,  as was apparently the Rohirric custom — and that was plenty.

I pitied him, in a way. He would probably end up marrying to please his advisors. The odds were even good that it would be Wilwarin. 

I thought I would kill myself before I was married off like that, but then again, my death was unlikely to trigger a succession crisis. And avoiding that was the whole point of marrying anyway.

As we passed further and further into the tunnels, I began to get a bad feeling — as though I’d forgotten something very important about my brother in our ten months apart. “‘Rothos, where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

Oh no, I thought, not this again. I tightened my grip on his hand. “Don’t you dare—”

He did dare. In another instant he’d yanked his hand away from mine and dashed away into the gloom, laughing maniacally all the while. “Best of luck, sister mine!”

“Amrothos!” I was angry. I was  _ really _ angry. How stupid was I to forget? This was a ‘game’ Amrothos liked to play: drag me somewhere unfamiliar, get me lost, run away. Ten months and the joy of seeing my brothers again had made me forget how horrid they could be; that joy was rapidly diminishing. “Best of luck to you too, brother mine, because when I get my hands on you …”

I wouldn’t do anything permanently damaging, of course. I was still too relieved to have him back. 

Grumbling, I tried to get my bearings. The lower palace was a dense tangle of passageways and storerooms. As a child, I had known them well — my cousins and I had played rangers and orcs for days, staking out abandoned rooms as ‘bases’ and mounting ‘assaults’ on each others’ hideaways. But I hadn’t so much as set foot in the city in years, let alone had time to muck about in the dust.

On the other hand … I hadn’t forgotten everything. Far away through the walls, I could hear a trickle of water. Fountains. I was beneath the gardens. All I had to do was keep going up. Eventually, to my great satisfaction, I reached a door I was quite sure lead into the hedge maze. Unfortunately, it was also jammed shut. No matter, I thought, gearing up for a bruised shoulder and thanking the Valar that high necklines had lately returned to favor. One, two, three, push! Almost. Something on the other side shook. I thought another shove might do it. One, two, three —

The door gave way almost of its own accord. As I stumbled over the threshold, there was an ominous shifting sound, and I found myself caught in a shower of decaying leaves and dirt. When I was quite sure it was over, I opened my eyes and surveyed the damage. Tilting my head in any direction triggered a fresh hail of debris, but at least this time it wasn’t aimed at my hair. I flicked a spider from my circlet. “Marvelous.”

“Your brothers told me you knew how to make an entrance.”

I shrieked. There was a man beside me. In fact, I surmised, there had until very recently been a man leaning on the door I had just entered through. He was blond and enormous; one of the Rohirrim. “Stars above!”

“Lady Lothíriel,” he said, not quite suppressing a quiver of amusement.

I collected myself. “My lord. I am afraid you have the better of me; I do not know your name.” I had met no Rohirrim yet in my time in Minas Tirith.

“I fought beside your brothers.”

“On the Pelennor?” Immediately I wished I’d held my tongue.

He met my eyes solemnly. “Aye, and at the Black Gates.”

On an impulse, I reached out for his hand. “We are all of us indebted to the Riders of Rohan.” His hand was warm and pleasantly rough, and swallowed mine entirely. When he showed no inclination of letting it go, I tightened my grip. For a moment we stood there, our hands clasped, sharing in the horror of what had almost happened and the wonder of our victory.  I realized I was leaning closer — and he was too — and I wondered if he might … 

A cough and a crack of leaves broke the moment. Blushing, I jumped back. “Excuse me!” I looked around wildly, but saw no one. We were still alone. Voices babbled over from the next hedge row as some other young couple wandered along.

Some  _ other _ young — I shook my head, as if that would do anything to clear it. The rider had yet to release my hand. “Lady?” he said almost tenderly. In that moment I remembered I still needed to speak with Lord Guilin.

“I have to get back.”

He gave me a dubious once-over, and I blushed defensively. “I have to kill my brother.”

He chuckled. “I wonder why.”

I brushed my dress as clean as I could manage, then started on my hair. Valar, but there were a lot of leaves! I froze as something else lightly brushed my head.

“It will go faster if I help.”

That was objectively true, so I decided not to dispute it. Between the two of us, we cleared my hair as thoroughly and quickly as could be expected. Then he offered me his arm, and we started back towards Merethrond. 

“How did you come to be out here all alone?” I asked.

“I was hoping to find a moment of peace and quiet. You?”

“My brother. It’s a game he plays.” I hastened to explain further as the rider frowned. “When we were children, we used to love exploring the catacombs below Dol Amroth. We would run around until we felt ‘lost’, then find our way out. When we visited the city, we would play the same game under the Citadel.”

“But your brother isn’t with you now.”

“No.” I smiled sourly. “A few years ago, ‘Rothos decided it was more fun as a competitive sport. I’m sure he’s waiting in the Great Hall now, timing me.”

“I’ve never thought of him as childish,” said the rider. He shook his head. “Béma, if I ever did that to  _ my _ sister …”

As we neared the hall, I began to feel disconcerted by the number of eyes thrown our way. “Do I still have leaves in my hair?” I whispered. He shook his head. I figured I probably still looked rather disheveled, but I straightened my spine and tried to summon some small scrap of dignity.  

My companion waved the herald down as he stepped forward to announce us — in my case, at least, again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“Bad form to be introduced twice,” he agreed. He stopped, seeming to spy someone in the crowd, then took my hand and raised it to his lips. “It was a pleasure to meet you, truly.”

“You as well.”

He disappeared into the crowd. Then I was torn — kill Amrothos, or find Guilin? Happenstance chose for me when I spotted the latter across the room, as yet unoccupied. He looked up and caught my eye. My breath hitched.

Two years ago, we had been as good as engaged. A love match. But my Uncle Denethor had forbid it, preferring to save me for some more advantageous alliance — which, I never did find out. I had been heartbroken; my father, furious. We closed our house and quit Minas Tirith within a tennight.

In the next instant, Guilin looked away. I let my breath go. What if he did not wish to speak? What if he could not bear to see me? What if, worse, he truly had forgotten and was now indifferent? I thought I could bear anything but that.

No; he was walking towards me now. A new dance was starting, a slow one where partners moved face to face with plenty of time to talk. Would he ask me to dance? 

He did. I accepted. We moved into the circle. 

Then he asked me about the weather.

“It has been very pleasant,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. He sounded bored.

“It is much as I remembered.”

“Oh? Well, I am glad our city does not disappoint.”

When the dance ended, he made to pull away. I stopped him. “Guilin, have we  _ nothing _ to say to each other?”

“I am in mourning, Lady Lothíriel.”

I shrank into myself. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Tragic, yes, but the Valar granted them a swift death.” 

I didn’t remember this man at all. He sounded so clinical, so detached. “Guilin …”

He waited patiently.

“I hope to see you again,” I finished lamely.

We took our leave of each other. I was left spinning. Who was this silent creature? Did I know him at all? How was I to draw him out?

It was with those questions running through my head that I rejoined my brothers. “Two hours and three minutes,” said Amrothos. I ignored him. 


End file.
